Nobody's crying
by Bookjunk
Summary: Quinn is feeling his feelings again. He's still not a fan. Now he also has to deal with a heartbroken Carrie.
1. Sad little history

**Nobody's crying**

**Chapter 1: Sad little history**

Quinn wishes he'd stayed in Argentina for a while. Not in the same village, obviously, because strangers stick out, but somewhere by the coast. It's just that being on a holiday doesn't suit him anymore. Maybe once upon a time he knew how to be a tourist, now all he's capable of is acting the part.

Before he knows it he's back in the familiar, cramped space of the team's head quarters. Carrie smiles at him. Two things immediately become clear to him. One: Carrie doesn't know yet. And, two: he's not done feeling his fucking feelings.

He smiles back and, when she's not looking, nods at Saul. Watching some surveillance footage of God knows what, Quinn observes how Saul takes Carrie into the next room. To his chagrin, they leave the door ajar.

It's early and Quinn's still recovering from jetlag, so he pours himself some coffee on the other side of the room. He sits down and, despite himself, listens. There's silence on the other side of the door. Or, at least, he doesn't hear anything. Then, suddenly, there it is. Carrie's voice, high and frantic, pleading.

'You don't understand! He's innocent!'

'Carrie, Brody is dead.'

'No, he's not. He's coming home to me,' Carrie says. There's something determined about the words. Pathetic, but determined to bend reality to her will. They re-enter the room and Quinn doesn't look. The fact that it's hard to keep his gaze trained on the table in front of him is disappointing. He thought he was done with this bullshit.

'Go home. Take the day off. That's an order,' Saul booms.

Carrie swallows. Quinn refuses to look up. He feels rotten. Not for killing Brody. Not for sitting here like a robot while she's hurting. For feeling rotten in the first place. He did his job. Nothing more, nothing less. He kills bad guys: it's who he is. He raises his head and glances at Carrie. Her eyes are everywhere. Taking in the equipment, processing the information. She blinks and nods rapidly.

Quinn gets back to work as soon as she has left.

(***)

There's someone on his doorstep that night. This is not something that happens a lot. There are precious few people who know where he lives and even fewer who would visit him. He shoves a magazine into his Glock and goes to look. It's Carrie. He curses and puts away the gun.

When he opens the door, she looks sheepish.

'Saul gave me your address,' she explains, apologetically. There's a pause wherein she stares at him. Amused, she raises her eyebrows as if to say that he should hurry up and make a decision. He does. It's probably the wrong one. He lets her in.

'So, what do you think?' he asks, spreading his arms to indicate his apartment. He's not much of a conversationalist.

'Spartan,' Carrie answers. They both chuckle. She sounds wounded and like she's doing a bad job of covering it up.

'I came here… What I wanted to say…'

Her voice is hoarse and weak and breaks again and again. There are tears in her eyes; he pretends not to notice. When he looks at her again, they are gone.

'I want to tell you about Brody,' she announces.

'Why?'

'Because everyone else thinks I'm crazy and in love and crazy in love.'

'And I don't?'

'Maybe you do. But you'll listen and I need someone to listen. I'll just give you the facts and that will be it, I swear.'

He thinks about it. This is the last thing he needs right now. On the other hand, Carrie really needs this. He can listen. She looks at him, expectantly. He shrugs.

'Okay.'

Relieved, she laughs.

'Okay,' she echoes.

He gets two beers from the fridge, but she asks for something stronger. There's a bottle of vodka in the bottom drawer. It must be her lucky day, Quinn thinks, before recalling that just that morning Carrie was informed that the man she loves is dead. So, not so lucky after all.

Carrie says she doesn't need a glass, which causes all sorts of alarm bells to go off in his mind. He ignores them and hands her the vodka. Unscrewing the cap of his bottle, he sits down across from her on the floor. She begins.

(***)

Picture a block of marble before the sculptor has decided what emotion to carve onto it: that's Carrie's face after she's finished. She looks at him and comes back. Piece by piece. Her expression shifts from blank to something he can't quite decipher.

'Are you still fucking that ER nurse?'

It doesn't take a genius to guess where she's going, but Quinn doesn't think there's enough alcohol in the world for him to go there.

'Time to go home,' he tells her, getting up. His limbs are stiff from sitting on the floor for so long. Carrie tries to get up, but stumbles. He catches her. She smiles wryly and points out that they are both not fit to drive. That's true. It's not too late to call a cab, though, Quinn thinks. The same thought appears to occur to Carrie and suddenly she looks lost.

'I'll sleep on the floor,' he offers.

'Such a gentleman,' Carrie mocks. She starts to undress, scoffing when he turns away. Quinn kind of appreciates the harshness of her reaction. It's softness that always gives him trouble. He looks in the hall closet for blankets, an extra pillow, maybe even a spare mattress and only finds two thin blankets. Well, he has slept in far worse conditions.

He takes off his shoes and socks first. His shirt and jeans follow quickly.

'Bet that hurt like a motherfucker,' Carrie remarks of his abdominal scar. When he looks at her, she's already staring at the ceiling. He spreads one blanket out on the floor and lies down, pulling the other one over him. After ten minutes of waiting – and dreading – for Carrie to make another move, he goes to sleep.

(***)

It's cold and light when he wakes up. His entire body aches. It's a good feeling. It vanishes when he sees that Carrie is shuddering. Her back is to him and for a moment he thinks it might just be the temperature. It's not. It's less shivering, more shaking. Quietly, he gets to his feet and kneels by the bed.

'Hey,' he whispers. When he touches her shoulder, she turns around. Her face is pale, her lips are trembling. She frowns.

'How can you tell if you had the real thing?'

He doesn't have an answer for her. Distraught, she brushes her hair back and grimaces.

'Fuck! He played me, didn't he?'

'Didn't look that way from where I was standing.'

His admission wakes both of them up properly. She is all business again immediately, glancing at her watch, slipping into her clothes. All traces of vulnerability are gone. After she has left, Quinn wonders for a long time about what he said. Does he think he could recognise love if he saw it? Would he recognise it if he felt it?

(***)

Author's note: This is a sequel to To the end of the Earth.


	2. Isn't it lonely?

**Chapter 2: Isn't it lonely?**

'Should I get used to sleeping on the floor?' he asks when she shows up on his doorstep again the following evening. The bluntness of his greeting catches Carrie by surprise. She smiles awkwardly, slipping past him quickly, as if she's afraid that he'll change his mind. Smart woman: he might.

'Or you could stop being such a goddamn prude. I mean, what's that about? You flash me in the hospital and now: nothing. Just _fuck_ me already.'

It's clearly a joke. Casual in theory, but forced in its delivery.

Arriving in the kitchen, she places one of the bags she's been holding on the counter. Her back is expressive as hell. Her shoulders are at the right height, but they don't move. The rest of her body forms one straight line. A rigid line of nervous energy. Never once looking at him, she begins to unpack containers.

'You like Indian food, right?'

Despite his lack of enthusiasm, she continues to doggedly clutter the counter with more containers. When that's done, she crumples up the now empty paper bag and starts to open drawers. Suddenly, she faces him. Quinn notices that her hands are twitching.

'Look, I can't go home. I mean, I've been there, but I can't, you know, _be_ there. So, I would really appreciate it if I could sleep here again tonight.'

One moment she looks embarrassed, the next strangely dignified. She makes eye contact, but her gaze is soon wildly roving around again. There's something unnerving about the desperate gleam in her eyes coupled with the _action, action, action _vibe that she is giving off. Like she wants to do something so bad, but doesn't know what to do. Quinn swings for indifference and misses by about a mile. Fuck.

'Stay,' he says. Carrie sighs, visibly relieved.

'I'll take the floor,' she offers. When he nods, she frowns. 'You don't wanna object?'

He shakes his head and she laughs.

(***)

They each have a dog-eared book in front of them. Occasionally, a page is turned. It's getting dark outside. Before she can say anything, he turns on an extra light. They immediately return to their respective books.

Quinn is not reading, though. He wonders how much Carrie knows about the Brody operation. She would have wanted to know all the painful details, but Quinn doubts that Saul would have given her the name of the shooter. He looks at her.

Does she suspect that it was him? Is that why she's here?

'You're a fan of Dickens?'

'What?'

'You're reading Great Expectations,' she points out.

'That Pip is a whiny little bastard.'

Carrie laughs. Every time she does she looks surprised. Quinn can barely stand it.

'Why do you put up with my shit?' she inquires. The question sounds serious. There's a thoughtful expression on her face. He slides a new bookmark between the pages and puts the book aside.

'Your shit is much more interesting that anyone else's shit,' he remarks. Carrie puts her book away too. She appears to consider his reply.

'Hmmm. Yeah, I'm not buying that.'

'I like you?' he attempts.

'You're so full of shit,' she protests.

'You're right. I just want to fuck you,' he admits, smirking. Carrie dismissively waves that explanation away.

'Pfff, like I haven't given you plenty of chances. Last night alone.'

They smile at each other. She leans back, resting her shoulders against the wall. Her posture is relaxed. Or whatever passes for relaxed when it comes to Carrie Mathison. At least she isn't as wound up as before.

'Thanks for being...' She pauses uncertainly. 'Thanks, Quinn.'

'You're welcome.'

(***)

Quinn is listening to her breathing. He thinks she might be doing the same thing.

'Why do you live like this?' she whispers.

'Like what?' he whispers back, humouring her. If he left tomorrow, he would leave nothing - nobody – behind. That's exactly how it should be. Her blankets make a dry rustling noise. She's moving.

'Like you're a fucking shadow. Isn't it lonely?'

There's an edge to her words that he can't imagine she intended to be there. Maybe she wants it to be yes, so she can propose for the two of them to fill each other's voids. That appears to be a pattern with her: seeking out unsuitable men.

Maybe she wants the answer to be no, so she can adopt the lifestyle as her own. She still has connections, relationships. He doesn't. Maybe she thinks she will function better without them.

Quinn has no idea how the hell to satisfy her and, more importantly, he doesn't want to. Carrie is so much like him already that it's scary. Eventually, he settles on the safe in-between.

'I don't know, Carrie. Is it?'


	3. Not a bad man

**Chapter 3: Not a bad man**

After a week, Carrie's knock has gotten awfully familiar.

They are settling into a rhythm that makes Quinn extremely uncomfortable. A routine has crept into everything they do. Also, there are things in his apartment that weren't there before. A table cloth, dishwashing supplies, light bulbs that he hasn't bought himself. Stuff that isn't his.

Every time she brings something else to his apartment, she prefaces it with a comment.

'So we don't have to eat like savages anymore.'

Plates.

'To brighten up the place.'

The table cloth.

At one point, he seriously considered shopping for another mattress or even a second bed, before he realised that this would definitely send the wrong message. Not that Carrie is an idiot. She knows that theirs isn't a long term arrangement and that she'll have to go home eventually. They can't keep alternating between sleeping in the bed and on the floor forever.

They're standing close together, doing the dishes. He washes. She dries. Carrie always starts, doing that calculated hair flip, barely hiding her smile as her fingers occasionally brush against his. He never backs down, because he enjoys it as much as she does. She's having fun: who is he to get in the way of that? There's nothing to it. It's harmless.

When they're done, she hands him the towel. Drying his hands, he watches her as she puts the plates and cutlery back where they belong. He is about to roll down his sleeves when Carrie, with her back to him, asks him not to.

'Don't. I've been meaning to tell you, you look good. Tanned. It suits you.'

His heart doesn't skip a beat. Quinn is sure that his face shows no outward sign of emotion. Still, it takes him a second to recover. _Argentina. _That's where he got that tan. He steels himself before cocking his head to the side.

'Are you flirting with me?' he asks. She smiles and pushes her hair behind her ear.

'Maybe.'

Then she touches his wrist with her fingertips. This is new. Unsure of how to react, Quinn doesn't. Tentatively, she encircles the joint with her fingers and turns his palm upward. They stand like that for a while, both looking at their hands, until she suddenly snaps out of it. She lets go and laughs.

'I could see his pulse beat in his temple. He was so lean and so brown and that wonderful jaw, hard and square,' she says, almost as if she is reciting something. The expression on his face seems to tickle Carrie, because she laughs again.

'So, who's the lucky one tonight? Who gets the bed?' she asks.

(***)

The office is different. Not trying to be intimidating or impressive. The result is almost homey. Saul waves for Quinn to pick a chair. He does and Saul sits down opposite from him. Estes would have sat on the other side of the desk or on the edge of the desk, to tower over him. Anything to gain the upper hand. Saul sits as if he's ready for a nice little chat.

'Talk to me.'

Quinn hands him the manila envelope containing the letter of resignation. After fishing his glasses out of his suit pocket, Saul starts to read. When he's done, he places the letter on the desk.

'I see,' Saul says, frowning. 'Why did you initially accept Carrie's offer to join the team on a permanent basis?'

'I suspected that Brody hadn't died in the attack.'

Saul seems to expect something more, so Quinn clarifies his statement.

'I stayed on to finish the job and I have.'

Saul sighs. When he leans forward, his glasses slip to the tip of his nose. He tips them back.

'And now?' he inquires.

'Now I move on.'

'Back to Dar Adal?' Saul guesses. Quinn doesn't answer, which is an answer in itself.

'You are a good analyst,' Saul says. Genuine emotion tinges the compliment.

'Thank you. I enjoyed the work.'

'Come and see me at the end of your two weeks, please.'

The conversation is at an end; nonetheless, Quinn neglects to leave. Saul waits patiently with his hands folded in his lap. With distaste, Quinn recognises that he's lingering. Lingering and stalling.

'How much does Carrie know?'

'About the operation? Nothing about your involvement. Other than that... everything.'

Quinn nods. That is what he expected. He has a brief vision of a future where Carrie is living in his apartment. Where they'll drive to work together. Where she is important to him.

'She is getting attached to me,' Quinn admits. The admission visibly startles Saul. He appears to mull it over.

'This is a bad thing?' he finally asks.

'Yes.'

Neither of them says anything for a while.

'Eliminating Brody was necessary,' Saul stresses. 'I know that and I still feel guilty for giving the order. It wouldn't be strange at all if you felt the same.'

'I don't,' Quinn answers, curtly. He would have killed Brody even without the authorisation and they both know it. He gets up. They shake hands. Saul scrutinises him with those sharp, curious eyes and finds nothing.


	4. Argentina

**Chapter 4: Argentina**

Here's Carrie again, Quinn thinks. While opening the door for her, he wonders why he doesn't just... not? Why doesn't he go somewhere? Why doesn't he sit in the park until dusk? Or, even better, he should simply do what he used to do: go to his apartment after work _and ignore the knock_. Why doesn't he?

This passive behaviour is unlike him. It would be annoying but understandable if he felt guilty about killing Brody. Except, he doesn't. Maybe he feels responsible. Maybe that's it.

That isn't it.

He isn't exactly anxious to help Carrie put herself back together. Allowing her to pick up the pieces in whatever way she wants, however, maybe that's alright.

It's his night to sleep in the bed, which is funny. The fact that there are nights when he doesn't have the bed is hilarious. His life is like a fucking never ending slumber party now.

Turning away from the wall, Quinn stretches out. Sleep won't come. He's tense. Muscles tight as a drum. Always restrained.

Carrie's not sleeping either. He can hear it. Her breathing is too shallow. He can hear her move too. Suddenly, there's a shadow standing over him. She is standing by the bed.

'I'm not trying anything, I promise,' she mumbles, before lifting up the sheet and crawling into bed beside him. It's intimate because spooning is intimate by default; not because it's them. Still, Quinn wants to scream when she nestles in the crook of his arm. This probably shouldn't freak him out as much as it does. Or should it? He has no idea how the hell he's supposed to feel anymore.

Frustrated, he sighs. Carrie counters with a sigh of her own. It sounds like everything he wants her to be. Comfortable. Safe. Happy. He just doesn't want her to feel like that with him.

(***)

His arm hurts. It's the first thing he notices when he wakes up. When he tries to move his arm, he can't. Carrie opens her eyes and kisses him good morning. For about a second it's the most natural thing in the world. Then reality hits him and it is what it _really_ is.

'I'm sorry,' Carrie says, waving her hand in front of her face. She gathers up her clothes. Quinn watches her dress. Every now and then she shakes her head as if she can't believe what she's done. She is smiling, only mildly embarrassed.

Quinn lies back and folds his hands beneath his head. Let's examine how I feel about this, he thinks. He feels calm. He feels a determination he hasn't felt without a weapon in his hand in a long time. Maybe never. Carrie tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

'That was a stupid thing to do. I know that you're not interested. You've made that abundantly clear,' she says. That might have been the end of it. Instead, Quinn gets out of bed and takes her arm. He slides his fingers down her elbow until her smooth wrist is in the palm of his hand. Carrie looks up at him. He places her with her back against the wall. Positions her, almost. He kisses her.

Line: crossed.

He cups her face in his hands. She clutches at his back. He tilts his head to the left, licks a hot strip up Carrie's throat, before returning to her mouth. It is a breathless affair. The sort of kissing that goes on in badly lit back alleys of bars and clubs. Seedy. Hungry.

When Carrie shrugs off her jacket mid-kiss, Quinn steps back. What the fuck is he doing? He is breaking her all over again.

'On my trip...' he starts.

'You were hunting,' Carrie interrupts, nodding impatiently, 'I know.'

'No, you don't.'

At a loss, she stares at him. He figures he needs to do it right now. Bluntness. Tact is not one of his strong suits.

'I was in Argentina, Carrie. I shot him.'

She exhales sharply as if she's been punched. He can pinpoint the exact moment that she realises that she heard it happen over the phone. It's when all the colour drains from her face. She wobbles, but stays upright.

'Why would you do that?' she whispers.

'I volunteered.'

He's not sure the details would make a difference here. Does it matter? He's tired of all this extraneous stuff anyway. Tired of useless desires.

Carrie's face falls. He stays at a distance and observes how she twists whatever she's feeling into anger. She snatches her jacket off the floor.

'You should have just _fucked_ me and been done with it,' she spits out, before leaving.


	5. Now you know

**Chapter 5: Now you know**

Quinn stoically registers the sound of the door slamming shut. He showers, dresses and eats breakfast. His continued lack of emotion is necessary.

At work that day, Carrie treats him no differently. That doesn't surprise him. He has seen her do this before. Her ability to mentally shift back and forth between the personal and the professional, often within the same sentence, is remarkable. Now she's purely professional. As is he.

Slowly, the cracks begin to show. It starts out small. Carrie's hands find their way into her hair a few too many times. Her eyes flit, as is their wont. But this time they don't stop. They scan the room again and again. Over and over her gaze skims across surfaces, faces, but she seems to take in little. When Virgil tells a joke, she chuckles. The entire reaction feels manufactured to Quinn, except he thinks that she would have done a better job of faking it. It's probably a side effect of the normalcy that she so desperately wants.

The barrier between the personal and the professional is obviously crumbling. All he has to do is wait.

'Goddammit, Danny! You think the car was never here? Alright, prove it. Prove to me it wasn't. Prove to me it wasn't parked there. Until you can, I suggest you find the fucking guy who moved the fucking car. I'm not...'

Quinn pulls her away from Danny, ending the tirade. Immediately, Carrie yanks her arm out of his grasp. And she's off. Virgil quietly warns him against going after her, but Quinn disregards the advice. He might even have stared Virgil down only to be met with a cool shrug. Thoroughly ridiculous behaviour.

'Go away,' she bites at him when he follows her into the bathroom. She rakes a hand through her hair, instantly turning it into an even bigger mess. Something volatile slips into her voice, crackling with barely contained anger.

'Were you handling me? Is that what this is? Huh?'

Carrie pushes him.

'Are you in charge of the crazy chick? Is that your department?'

Laughing, she shakes her head.

'Didn't look that way from where I was standing,' she recites his words back to him. 'Oh, you're good.'

'Carrie...' he breathes, not recognising the tone of his own voice. There's something he's supposed to say here. What really happened, but for some reason he can't.

'Why'd you do it?' she asks, clarifying, 'Why didn't you say anything when I told you my sob story? Why'd you let me trust you? Why did you make me think you cared about me? Why were you such a fucking liar?'

As if to punctuate the sentiment, she slaps him. Quinn takes it. He doesn't know anymore what he's doing or why. Nor does he care. When she moves to slap him again, he grabs her arm. Her other arm comes up and he grabs it too.

'I saw how much he meant to you, so I refused.'

Carrie struggles to break free, while Quinn tries to make sense of what he said. It's not true. That's not the reason. Part of it, maybe. Oh, Jesus, he thinks, did I already care about Carrie then?

'What are you talking about?'

'I was put on the team by Estes with the sole purpose of killing Brody. But I disobeyed his order.'

She stops struggling. Pieces the sequence of events together before his eyes. Relives it, realising that this is the truth. Minutes go by as she processes what he told her. Eventually, she lifts her head and asks him to have sex with her.

'What? No,' Quinn responds, startled.

'Why not? Killing an innocent man is fine, but fucking me is going too far? How is _this_ your line?' she mocks, misunderstanding his reluctance. This is not a moral dilemma. Sex rarely is. Carrie is attractive. He likes her. But, like he told Estes, he doesn't want to kill her. Also, Brody: innocent? No. Carrie notices his look and interprets it correctly.

'Brody had nothing to do with the attack,' Carrie declares.

'I know that's what you want to believe…'

'Don't give me that bullshit. It's you who wants to believe something here. 'Cause if I'm right that means you shot an innocent man and what does that make you?'

Quinn snaps. It's almost a relief. He catches her by the shoulders and shoves her against the wall. Carrie's gasp of shock only makes him angrier.

'He's guilty,' he growls through gritted teeth. They glower at each other. He thinks about her offer. He actually seriously considers taking her up against a bathroom wall at the CIA with their colleagues in the other room. It would be hot. It would be hate.

'Fuck you, Quinn,' Carrie says. It's as if he hears himself. There's nothing there. No emotion. No nothing. Immediately, he releases her and leaves. Ignoring the puzzled looks of Danny and Virgil, he walks straight into the men's room.

Quinn is pretty appalled at how he lost control. Of how he's feeling his fucking feelings all over the place. He doesn't care what anyone says: Brody is guilty.

This is not anyone, though, he reminds himself. This is Carrie. And Carrie is almost always – eerily – right. However, Brody _is_ guilty.

He turns towards the bathroom mirror. The skin stretches unusually tight over his bones. The lean line of jaw and temple and forehead is so sharply defined and fixed that it's less a face than a death mask. Out of this face look two intense, blue eyes. Quinn closes his eyes and looks again. The mirror shows a doubting man.


End file.
